


catch me when I fall

by ninemoons42



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Banter, Battle Couple, Competence Kink, Established Relationship, Giving Orders in Bed, M/M, Modern Royalty, Soldiers, Special Operations, Spy Prompto Argentum, boys getting some action, safecracking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-01
Updated: 2018-06-01
Packaged: 2019-05-15 23:51:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14800305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninemoons42/pseuds/ninemoons42
Summary: Prompto Argentum swore an oath to be a loyal soldier of Lucis, and he does anything and everything his country, his kingdom, asks him to do.And he's also sworn his own heart and his own soul to the prince of Lucis.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [liziscribbles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/liziscribbles/gifts).



> Happy birthday, Lizi, kweh~

“...put that fool of a princess in her place -- what makes her think she can rule -- ”

“I do, I always have,” he says, and he falls soundlessly from the ceiling and the harnesses that had been almost comfortable, fine-woven mesh in black woven around and around his arms and his legs and his hips and the whole system only needs a handful of clicks to release, and he drops twelve feet and lands as lightly as he can on one hand, on the balls of his toes, sliverflash of his favorite knife already spring-loaded and out in its eager wicked arc and he leaps most of the way to upright, and he thinks maybe Ignis and Nyx would be proud of him, the way he doesn’t waste any of his movements, any of his momentum, the glittering edge of death shooting for the speaker’s throat and laying it open, single swift soundless stroke.

Prompto’s only sorry the asshole who’d been speaking of Princess Lunafreya like a political plaything, like a pointless pawn-piece, had died in so little pain. So little agony. He knows in his own fingertips how sharp the knife can be, how easily it cuts, how easily it draws blood, and the man at his feet is already bleeding out and the blood on the fine polished stone on the floor is a near-black slick.

He would have liked to inflict a little more pain on the asshole, or maybe a lot more, but there’s never any time for that sort of judgment, for that sort of bloody justice.

So he gives in to the impulse to flip the asshole’s corpse off, knife back in its sheath so he has two hands free and two middle fingers to raise, and then he turns -- light on his feet and still wary, still wrapped in his harness because he’s still going to need those straps and those buckles, and he’s barely even breathing hard by the time he reaches the room marked STUDY on the tiny map that’s still receiving real-time updates, miniature green-lined grid tracing and retracing itself on the cool black screen of his smartwatch.

Whose screen he taps, once he’s sure he’s outside the right set of doors. “Arrived at secondary objective,” he mutters, words traveling to the slim-line mic that’s curved to fit the angle of his jaw. “Oversight?”

“Clearing the area, shortcake, not everyone’s as lightning-fast as you. Why don’t you stop and smell the roses for a bit.”

He rolls his eyes, a little. “Pick on me some more, why don’t you.”

“Wasn’t asking for that kind of permission, but sure, when it’s so freely given -- ”

Snort. He looks up, finds the nearest set of security cameras -- and one of them even seems to turn towards him, so he can actually see his own hazy outline-reflection in the cold gleam of the lens, and again he raises one middle finger in ironic salute.

“Tsk. Ungrateful.” The voice of Aranea, cool and competent and undercut as always by the fearsome rapid-fire clack of keys, of mouse-clicking. “There. Even someone as scrawny as you should be able to kick that door in.”

“Please tell me there aren’t any sensor grids on the other side. I hate doing the thing,” he complains, quietly, and he doesn’t do as she’s suggested: he puts the entirety of his back up against the door that he’s supposed to be opening, even when he knows he won’t have a lot of time to use that same door as a shield against the remaining security measures on its other side. Hand on the ornate doorknob, soundless twist of his wrist, and he lets the door’s inward momentum carry him from the corridor to the study in one long step -- 

“Clear?” he mutters into the mic.

“All clear, but watch out for the safe itself.”

He winces, then, even when there’s no one to see him make the expression.

Winces and looks toward the blocky squat bulk of the huge safe behind the massive battleship-bulwark of the desk -- the safe that’s tucked well away from the windows and from the doors of the room, the safe with its dial and its worn-down numbers, dull taunting sheen of them from right across the room. 

Whistle in his earpiece, confirming what he’s seeing. “Someone believes, or believed, in old-school shit.”

“More likely the asshole I killed doesn’t think anyone can open safes like this one any more. Everything’s digital these days,” he mutters.

“And digital shit’s a cakewalk for someone like me, but you’re on your own for this one.”

He winces again. “I was afraid you’d say that.”

Still: he takes off his gloves and stows them in his jacket. Takes off his hat, too, that should have concealed the telltale brightness of his hair, but he’s fairly sure there’s no one else now alive in this part of the building (and Aranea will let him know if hostiles do show up). 

Just him and his hands and his ears, and it’s been years since he’s tried to charm the lock on a safe, and he’s not even sure he still remembers the right sounds that he has to be listening for.

But the moment he touches the dial, it’s like the world goes quiet and still around him -- the night falls away, too, and the adrenaline rush of killing not only the asshole politician but also every single one of his bodyguards, and all in close quarters. 

This, this is something he knows how to do, too, he not-thinks.

Ear to the cold textured metal. Fingertips twitching precisely on the dial. The numbers are almost obscured -- this is clearly an old safe, and this is clearly a safe that has held through -- he doesn’t want to think about how old this thing is. 

He’s more interested in all the secrets it must still be holding. 

He knows that the combination he needs is ten digits long.

He listens for the quiet sounds of the lock giving way.

Quiet music in his earpiece; he can’t hear Aranea, and there’s no way of knowing whether she’s still on the line with him, or if she’s gone off to sneak a cigarette or -- knowing her -- something else, something with a vicious kick.

He breathes and keeps dialing, keeps listening, and the cold logical part of his mind catalogs the digits on the move, the combination falling together.

He thinks he’s got eight of the ten that he needs, and they’re all even in the right order, when he hears another footstep and he’s still not thinking, not really, and so -- he draws the backup pistol that he keeps in the top of his boot and wings a shot in the direction of the errant sound.

Soft curse, sharp accent, and Prompto feels his eyes widen, suddenly, even when the rest of him is still riveted to the safe and to cracking it open. “Does your dad know you’ve -- gone out?”

“Of course not. That’s the whole point. You going to tell him, or your oversight?”

Warmth all along his back, suddenly, pressing in on him, and he doesn’t even know he’s been shivering in this underheated squat sprawl of a fortified home until both hands are steady on the safe and on its dial once again. Scent of mountain-winds in his nose, evergreen and wildflowers undercut by salt-smoke -- he breathes in, once, twice, and there’s such a terrible temptation to stop now and to lean back into the person who’s now holding him.

The person he’d nearly shot: so he clears his throat, pegs down the ninth possible digit in the combination, and mutters, “Sorry about the thing.”

“Nope.” Pop of the P, close to his ear. “You’re watching your own back even when you’re up to your eyeballs in this shit. You don’t get to apologize for that. Won’t accept it anyway.”

He snickers despite himself. “Okay, Noct, whatever you say.”

Whisper and a pleased hum from behind him: and fingertips stroking along his jaw and up. The release of pressure from around his ear. 

“Did you just -- ” Prompto begins.

“Yeah I did. Do I want Aranea to yell at me? No thanks.”

“Yes, but if you cut me off from HQ how am I supposed to get out of here in one piece? And preferably still alive?”

Puff of breath that almost sounds like a laugh. “Okay, way to make a guy feel wanted.”

He does laugh back at that. “You know you love it.”

“No I don’t. But I love you.”

“Cheesy. Love you,” he mutters, and he shifts his weight just a little so he can press into the warmth of the body holding his close. Enough room for that body to maneuver, and to wrap an arm around his waist.

The hand that lands on the safe’s door next to his is covered in black, and even in the nearly-nonexistent light he can see the rich sheen on the material, and the flex of the knuckles that it covers. 

He’s badly, badly tempted to lean forward and kiss those knuckles -- but he’s so close, now, so close, and being left hanging like this is nothing short of frustrating -- 

“Need help?” Sweet rumble of those words, that pierce him straight through.

“Yeah,” he says.

“Okay, Prom, I got you.”

That same black-gloved hand moves, and it lands gently and softly over his eyes, plunging the world into total darkness.

“You got this. And I’m watching your back.”

“Who’s watching yours?” But the question is only a means of exhaling properly. A way to let him draw a clean confident breath, that scours him all the way down to his cramping toes, that lets him almost imagine the inner workings of the safe and its door, the mechanisms of the bolts. The right order in which to enter the digits of the combination. And all the while the fingers of the hand on the dial are moving, delicate and sure, manipulating the lock to produce the sounds that he needs to hear, the sounds that he needs to home in on that last piece of information that he needs -- 

Glancing brief touch of pressure to the back of his head.

And, in that exact moment he hears the last click that he needs to hear: the last digit falling into place, and he smiles. Twirls the lock to let it fall back into a blank locked configuration and then -- one digit after the other, the steady rhythm of yielding bolts that he can feel, and -- 

“You got it,” he hears Noctis say.

The hand covering his eyes falls away.

“Yeah.” Safe, its door swinging open, and two levels inside, each burdened with a heap of files and crumbling folders.

“There’s gotta be stuff in there from before we were born,” he hears Noctis whisper.

“Smells like it. I’m just glad I don’t have to try and read any of it. Not my thing anyway. So: exit strategy?” And now that he can breathe again, now that this part of the job is done, he can twist partway around and look, just -- look, for now.

He can’t even remember the last time he’s seen Noctis, much less seen him this close: the missions have been coming at him hard and fast, so much so that Ignis has openly voiced the possibility of things like conspiracies, so much so that Cor is no longer dismissing that formerly foolish idea out of hand. So much so that he’s already lost track of the number of bodies he’s left in his wake: but he does this for the country that’s taken him in, and nearly literally for the prince who’s holding on to him right now.

He’s willing to do these things.

Just as much as he’s willing to -- smile back, and tilt his head in a silent invitation, and he watches Noctis grin and -- blur. Moving in, too close, and again Prompto closes his eyes and lets himself drown in the presence of Noctis, in the rhythm of his breaths that gust warm and tingling over his cheek. In the impact of his mouth, warm and insistent and coaxing him into one kiss, and then into another, and another.

“Help me get out of here,” he whispers, against Noctis’s lips.

“You only had to ask.”

Hands helping him to his feet. Hands helping him to gather the asshole politician’s files into the flat pouch tucked into his jacket. Hands, more reluctantly, helping him to put his headset back on.

Noctis looks good in black and that’s why he seems to wear little else that isn’t -- but tonight the major pieces of his outfit are patterned in a digital hatch of black and gray and white pixels writ large, and it’s weird how he seems to blur in and out of sight, when they’re just walking back through the gloom of the office, when they’re just heading back to the open door.

As they pass the bullet-hole that Prompto’s left in the wall, he hears Noctis chuckle, and he snorts quietly in response.

Brush of Noctis’s hand over the sheath in which Prompto carries his knife, and knowing smile, and -- then he watches Noctis pull a cut-down shotgun from the straps crisscrossing his leg, and he has to laugh back, and draw his own pistol, too. “Nice.”

“Can’t leave home without it,” is the flippant reply.

For all the work he’s had to do to get into this room, into the entirety of this building, getting out is only a matter of walking through the doors that Noctis opens for him, and watches for him, eyes steady and hands firm over the shotgun. 

So he watches Noctis’s back, and no one pops out of the woodwork to get in their way, and he finally taps his mic back into life and mutters, “Got what I came for.”

“Casualties?” Aranea isn’t talking about the bodyguards or the person they’d been watching. 

“Nothing to report.”

“Okay, shortcake, should I leave you to your own devices now? I can tell you where the garage is. Guy you killed’s a piece of work, but he does know his sports cars.”

“We both know I hate supercars as much as you like them,” he mutters, laughing softly. 

Shadow of Noctis drifting over to him, leaning in without a sound that the mic can pick up.

But his hand is warm around Prompto’s.

“I’m not gonna listen to you making fun of the things that make me happy, goodbye,” and there’s a muffled crash on the line.

Prompto laughs until he’s breathless, and laughs even harder because Noctis is making funny faces at him, and he finally pulls the headset off completely, and stows it and its trailing wires in the pocket of his trousers. “I might have offended her. Totally not on purpose though. I mean, why would I do that?”

“Yeah I figured as much. I like cars but not the ones she does,” he hears Noctis say. “Speaking of which, you want to see mine?”

Prompto laughs some more, and presses himself along Noctis’s side. “Car? What car? People are driving you around in bulletproof limos.”

“So how did I get here?”

“You tell me.”

“I’ll just show you.”

And Noctis takes off at a run, and Prompto blinks and gives chase, and this is easy, this is good, this is enough for him to forget most of the night’s work -- he doesn’t have to think about reading the files that he’s stolen, that’s way above his pay grade in any case -- he’s only the delivery mechanism for that stuff and no one’s going to be looking for him for a while, not now that he’s checked in and confirmed that the mission’s gone off without a hitch.

He can’t feel any guilt, anyway, not when Noctis all but vaults into the driver’s seat of a sleek vintage roadster: canvas-roof and black trimmed in hairline-scarlet detail. “Going my way?”

“As long as you let me have a turn driving this thing.”

“Sure, as long as you earn it,” and there’s a sharp edge in Noctis’s smile, that sends familiar shockwaves rocketing through Prompto.

“I like a challenge,” he says, and he makes a point of clicking the safety harness into place, of bracing his feet.

“Yeah I know you do.” And Noctis is gunning the engine, the world blurring out in the revs and the roar of the car, and Prompto reaches for the hand on the gearshift, and holds on.


	2. Chapter 2

He wakes up to a room full of blue shadows and the golden telltale edge of sunlight and morning, to faint lightening streaks in the sky that he can see out the windows, to the insistent scent of the ruffle-petaled flowers on their branches and vines that have been trained to hang like a curtain from the exterior walls of this place.

He wakes up in a warm bed, and that not just because he’s sleeping beneath a pair of heavy quilts: he wakes up in a warm bed because there’s a living weight plastered up against his back, soothing heave of quiet breaths against his shoulder. One arm slung around his waist, hovering just over his own hip.

Noctis smiles, and carefully catches Prompto’s hand in his own, and tucks it against his stomach.

Behind him, against him, a soft rumble of a sound, not quite a word, not really anything like language, but it makes him think that Prompto maybe feels safe enough to sleep so deeply and make such un-self-conscious sounds, and that in turn makes him feel safe. 

Safe enough that maybe he can forget the previous night -- the illicit rush of stealing the roadster from the sprawl of the palace grounds the moment he’d overheard his security detail talking about an operation in this part of the country. The hot sharp rush of recognition that had speared through him, as soon as he recognized the movements of the black-clad shape stalking the governor of one of the western territories through not-quite-familiar corridors.

And Prompto never reuses his mission designations, Noctis knows that for the truth, and yet he’d still immediately known who _Fratello_ actually was, as soon as he’d seen the lethal glint of light off his knife.

Prompto, in the here and now, stirring in his arms: blink and blink of long pale eyelashes, and deep shadows falling onto the freckles in his cheeks, and idle twist of his mouth as he worked himself up into waking.

“Hi.”

“Noct.”

And Noctis nods, once, and leans in for a kiss. “Sleep okay?”

“Sort of. Still jangling a little. I keep thinking yesterday -- yesterday? Last night? What time is it anyway? Fuck, I don’t know what day it is any more.”

He laughs a little, and presses a kiss to Prompto’s temple to soothe him. “That was yesterday. You were _Fratello_ yesterday. And today, you’re -- ”

Prompto yawns, and laughs a little, and it’s a relief to hear him laugh. “I’m not that guy. You can forget all about him. He doesn’t exist.”

“Pretty much,” and Noctis smiles and kisses his temple again. “You need to rest don’t you.”

“And you, why are you even awake already, that’s not like you.”

He can’t help but snort, quietly. “And now you’ve wrecked it. Good job.”

“Noct,” he hears him say.

And he lands flat on his back in the pillows, looking up into the concern threaded into the lines of Prompto’s face. 

That he reaches out to, trying to caress them away. “I’m fine. Or I’ll be fine. I had a hard time sleeping.”

Narrowed blue-violet eyes, like the hearts of forget-me-nots. “Because this isn’t exactly home.”

“No, it’s not that,” he says, and he closes his eyes and tries to put the words together, properly. “I know this place. I’ve stayed here before. It’s not that it’s not home. It’s that -- you know what’s over the mountains that way,” he says, and he points in the opposite direction from the landscape that he can see out of the windows.

Wince, that he echoes. “Yeah,” Prompto says. “I know pretty fucking well what you’re talking about.”

“So now you know what’s bothering me. This place is -- tense, worse than tense, it’s like sleeping on top of dynamite and you can smell the match that was lit but you don’t know if you’re going to get blown up or not.”

“Yeah.” Pause. “Fuck.”

“Pretty much,” and he turns his face into the crook of Prompto’s neck, and tries to steady himself. Tries to breathe calmly. 

“I, I can tell Aranea I have no plans of going back to HQ,” he hears Prompto say, after a while. “Someone can collect those files from me. But I’m not going back there until you’re done with this place. Are you supposed to be staying here for, for a month or something? Because that might be a problem, unless I can come back here between things -- ”

He shakes his head as quickly as he can, as soon as he catches the drift of Prompto’s questions. “No. I’ll be traveling back to Insomnia in a couple of days. Just -- have to go around and be reassuring, one or two more big events and then there’s the dinner Lunafreya and Ravus will be hosting before I go.” 

Frown on Prompto’s face, and an angry huff of breath escaping him. “That guy I killed. He was talking about trying to depose Luna. And -- I guess I should tell you this unless you already know -- there’s an entire bunch of them talking that kind of shit.”

“I know,” he says, quickly. “I know. Dad knows. And I’ll be honestly surprised if Ravus doesn’t know, which means as sure as anything Lunafreya knows, too.”

“Sleeping on top of dynamite.” Sigh, and it’s like Prompto seems to deflate, and to go limp on the pillows. “You got it right there.”

“And I don’t want to think about it,” he says.

“Me neither.”

He levers himself up onto his elbows. Reaches out to Prompto’s face, to the bruise-shadows beneath his eyes, and then -- he’s falling, gently, falling towards him and into a quiet brush of a kiss.

Like the stolen kisses from last night -- he quickly loses track of where he ends and where Prompto begins -- he quickly loses track of the gaps between their kisses, the gaps where they gasp and steal breath for their starving lungs, for their hammering hearts -- he can span the shiver that runs through Prompto’s shoulders, easily. He can hear the little hitching noises in Prompto’s breaths.

And he presses closer, closer, needy and shameless about it -- and that partly because Prompto’s hands are winding through his hair, are pulling gently and firmly and he’s torn right down the middle between arching up into the touch and falling into deeper and deeper kisses -- 

He catches another breath, and then he can blink the haze of his need out of his eyes -- only to stare, when he catches Prompto looking back up at him.

Prompto, wide-eyed and clearly homing in on him: the Prompto of last night, armed with a knife and a backup pistol and a predator’s grace, a predator’s instinct -- the dark beautiful shadow in his eyes, that’s for Noctis alone to see.

So it’s easy, then, to lean in, and lick at the corner of Prompto’s mouth, and ask: “Will you have me?”

Blink. Blink. The quiet voice that shivers around the edges. “That’s what you want.”

“I want you,” Noctis says. “And I want you to have me.”

Hand at the back of his neck: it goes still.

He dares to meet Prompto’s eyes again.

“Ask me nicely.”

And Noctis shivers, smiles, closes his eyes.

Says, “Please, please have me.”

Sunlight catches in Prompto’s face for a moment, highlights his freckles in a sweep of illumination. “Safewords?”

Noctis nods. “If we need them. Red, yellow, green.”

“And now -- ”

“Green, Prom, I’m green, I want this,” and that’s far as he goes before he’s suddenly weightless and then he’s on his back once again, pinned between the pillows and the sweet forceful looming presence of Prompto, leaning down so they’re nose to nose and yet there’s nothing gentle in that avid gaze.

That he sees for only a moment because Prompto is kissing him, hot and wild as a fire burning out of control, light burning like a halo in his hair, blinding Noctis -- 

“Ah, ah, no, you get to watch this.”

He blinks, stares upwards, helplessly, caught and pinned on Prompto’s tiny smirk. “What?”

“Don’t close your eyes. You asked for this so -- you’ll get it. Every minute of it. Everything I do to you. Watch me.”

“I, I, yes, but -- ”

Hand, that’s Prompto’s hand, closing gently around his throat -- and Noctis feels his own pulse rocket again, the sound of it thudding almost painfully in his ears. 

Knife-edge of a sweet smile. “I know you get overwhelmed -- and I want you to get overwhelmed,” he hears Prompto say, low and intent. “I want you to fly apart. All right?”

Oh.

“Yeah,” Noctis says, after a breathless moment. “I. I will.”

“Good.” Blink, and in that instant Prompto is just Prompto, reassuring him. “I’ll make it damn good for you. Just hold out for it, okay? Just wait for it, wait for me. Okay?”

“Yeah,” he says again.

And because he’s been told to pay attention -- because he’s been told to _watch_ \-- he’s immediately helpless and keening as Prompto’s eyes go hard and feral -- eyes that are fixed on his through a series of deep kisses, Prompto tasting him thoroughly and Noctis moans, the moment Prompto lets him up -- 

Only for that same mouth to close on him, just below the line of his collar bone -- scrape of teeth, swipe of tongue -- and suction that has Noctis struggling to hold back not just his shouts of need but the tears in his eyes, too -- pain, powerful and drugging and slashing down his nerves -- pain that shatters abruptly into the thrill of feeling and of need, and Noctis gasps in a shaky breath and calls, softly, “More, more, Prompto, don’t stop please!”

He barely feels his clothes as they’re peeled away -- he’s far more interested in Prompto’s naked skin, in Prompto’s wandering hands that kindle wildfire wherever they go. Pinch at his nipple, that’s soothed by the long attentive swipe of tongue. Fingernails digging into his thigh and dragging, down down down, the flare of sensation a sore test of Noctis’s ability to keep his eyes open -- the more so when Prompto repeats the movement down his other leg, in practically the same instant when Prompto takes his cock in his mouth. 

Tongue lathing wet lines up and down his shaft, teasing, and Noctis lets the tears fall, where he’s falling to pieces and still watching -- it’s like a compulsion now, to keep looking, to try and figure out what Prompto’s going to do next -- 

“Please, please,” Noctis whispers, watching entranced as Prompto goes down on him again, those freckled cheeks hollowing, that talented mouth growing redder and redder.

“I can feel you,” Prompto says, once he’s released him with an obscene little popping sound. “How close are you?”

“I, I don’t know, I don’t know and I want to find out,” he manages.

“Never told you you couldn’t come.” Prompto sounds almost kind. “I just asked you to wait. You done waiting, or do you want to keep waiting?”

“I can wait. I think.”

“Good. Keep watching.”

He does, he’s helpless and he’s riveted to every last detail of Prompto he can see, every last one of Prompto’s movements, from the way he takes his shirt off to the proud jut of his cock -- from the flush that’s nearly dark enough to erase his freckles, to the glint in those gorgeous eyes -- and the presence of him, crouching over Noctis, looking at him just as avidly.

“You’re beautiful,” he hears Prompto say, and he wants to look away, he wants to deny that word -- but he obediently keeps his eyes on Prompto’s mouth, all the way until Prompto’s blurring out again, kissing him, and he sighs and fights to press closer, pleading now, rubbing his cock against Prompto’s leg and there’s sweet soft laughter and a fingertip pressing at the corner of his mouth, breaking the kiss, begging to be let in.

So he blinks, and goes down on Prompto’s finger, avid and needing and when it’s pulled away from him he thinks he makes a disappointed sound.

All the way until Prompto bears down into him, rocks his hips down, and the temptation to close his eyes devours Noctis whole once again -- he’s the thrill searing away all the thoughts swirling in on him -- 

“Come on, come on,” now Prompto’s other hand is on his ass, is pulling him close, is encouraging him to rock against him again and Noctis calls out his relief, strains to get closer and closer and --

Gentle probing touch at the pucker of his entrance, and he fights to keep his rhythm going, fights to keep looking up at Prompto -- who enters him and takes him all at once -- 

“Please, please,” Noctis can hear himself babbling, but as if from a very great distance.

“Come for me, now, come for me,” he hears Prompto say.

He does, and he knows he’s still trying to meet Prompto’s eyes even as his climax crashes in on him -- but the world spirals away from him, and he thinks he sobs, he thinks he’s trying to say “Thank you” -- 

Groan that isn’t his, that shivers against the skin of his shoulder.

“Yeah, same,” he whispers, and he holds on to Prompto, and lets himself be held.

Lets himself dream that he’s safe.

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me on Tumblr at my FFXV sideblog [@ninemoons42-lestallumhaven](http://ninemoons42-lestallumhaven.tumblr.com/) or at my main [@ninemoons42](http://ninemoons42.tumblr.com/)!


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